smoke the hive to calm them down

The birdlike gestures are worn away to a mere picking and plucking her way between the tire rims and the sunflowers, between Coke bottles and milkweed, among all the waste and beauty of the world - which is what she herself was. All of our waste which we dumped on her and which she absorbed.

You were always my favourite uncle. You wrote love poetry and did the Tarot cards. And when Mum was pregnant with me and Paul and decided to have an abortion, you waited outside the clinic, hoping she would change her mind. The little seagull you and Mum found while walking along the beach barefoot - you both agreed it was lucky. The silver puzzle box you kept on the dashboard of your car and that you used to play with all of the time. And a packet of Benson and Hedges, slightly crushed. I guess they were the last thing you ever held. When they told me you were dead, I wasn't surprised. I went upstairs quietly and ran a bath. I didn't cry. The story of how you died filled me with horror. But I still didn't cry - because deep in my soul I know the soul can endure.